


The Sweetest Sabotage

by Ryuchu



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, pastry shop au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-30 06:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11458260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuchu/pseuds/Ryuchu
Summary: When Mishima purchased a pastry shop, he felt like things were finally going right in his life. Not only did he suddenly have a passion to pursue, but he could also eat as many sweets as he wanted.There was only one problem: he forgot to hire a pâtissier to actually bake the pastries.As he scrambles to find someone, Akira Kurusu suddenly shows up at his shop one day, offering to fill the position. Although Mishima's sure there has to be a catch, he has little choice and agrees to hire him, not even beginning to realize the far reaching consequences for both his shop and himself.





	1. Chapter 1

Mishima laid face down on the counter and silently prayed that some god, any god really, would smite him where he stood. It would be a mercy killing; life would be so much better if he were just a smoldering pile of ash on the ground. No worries, no concerns, no having to find some way to recover from the literal biggest fuck up of his life – just a content, smoking pile of ex-Mishima.

Instead of being granted a swift and merciful death, Mishima gave a sigh that was halfway to a groan and fought valiantly to bite back the sting of tears that scratched at his eyes. Distantly, he heard the sound of his phone buzzing against the counter top. He expected it to stop after a few seconds, indicating that he had received a text message, but it just kept going. Someone was apparently trying to call him.

Typically, he would have answered his phone in an instant, eager to see who it might be. Today, however, the only companion he wanted was his new best friend: the nice, cool counter top pressing against his cheek. At least it wouldn't judge him; at least he could pretend that he was getting his money's worth this way.

The phone stopped and Mishima welcomed the return of the merciful silence. However, _some_ god had apparently heard his earlier prayers and decided he needed more misery instead of mercy because almost immediately, his phone began to buzz again. This time, Mishima rolled his head, cheek still pressed against the counter top, and languidly picked up his phone.

He recognized the name of his best friend (and boyfriend for a few months) from back in high school, a boy on the basketball team. Mishima still kept in touch with him, but it had been about a year since he last saw him. He had been swept away on a basketball scholarship to some college out of the prefecture, leaving Mishima behind in Tokyo.

It was also his fault that Mishima found himself with a sudden fanatical faith in the gods, particularly those of the smiting variety.

He stared at his phone, allowing the call to go to voicemail.

Almost immediately, his phone lit up with a text notification.

'pick up ur phone'

Mishima seriously debated not answering, but he knew his friend well enough; he would not stop calling until he got a response. With clumsy, slow fingers, he typed a quick response.

'no'

His response was as instantaneous as his first message.

'i kno where u live'

'ur not coming back'

'if you dont answer i will and u know it'

'ur busy w school'

'its summer dumbass'

Another sigh escaped Mishima as he stared at the response. Right. If he had made it into any of the colleges he applied for, he would be spending the summer of his sophomore year goofing off or maybe participating in a volleyball ca-

Mishima bit his tongue to end that thought before it could go any further. What did it matter. That wasn't what happened. Instead, just when he had finally found direction in his life again, he had screwed up right at the most critical moment. Typical.

Another buzz of his phone.

'im calling u better answer'

True to his word, Mishima's phone once again joyfully announced the arrival of an incoming call. He knew he would have to answer, but he let it go to the last ring to drive home just how much he didn't want to.

“You wouldn't come back. You've got that basketball camp all summer,” Mishima offered as way of hello.

“If I thought you were dumb enough to try something,” he heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line answer, “my ass would be on that train so fast, basketball be damned.”

Mishima wanted to argue, but he knew he was telling the truth. More than once he had been the one to talk him down from dumb decisions and anxiety driven panic attacks. Even after their time as boyfriends ended, Mishima found himself relying on him way more than he cared to admit. If he thought he needed him, he would be there in an instant, basketball camp or no.

“Where were you a week ago when I took the keys to this place?” Mishima whined as he rolled his face so he was once again staring at the counter top.

“The same place I was two months ago when you first started talking about buying it – telling you to make sure this is what you really wanted to do and you've got everything you're going to need to actually make a pastry shop work.”

The groan Mishima made into the counter top sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. He was right, of course, but that didn't make it any better to hear.

When the elderly couple that used to own the shop first began talking about selling it so they could retire, Mishima's initial reaction was a gentle pang of regret. He had been visiting this tiny pastry shop since he was a child; he remembered dozens of occasions when his mom stopped with him on the way home from the train station and allowed him to choose a sweet to celebrate a high mark on a test. Even into high school he would stop by whenever he was having a particularly rough day. To say it was a place that he had strong feelings towards may have been a bit of an understatement.

So as the tentative date the couple had set for their retirement drew ever nearer with no potential buyer coming forth, a crazy idea began to form in Mishima's mind.

He could run a pastry shop, couldn't he?

Sure, he didn't have the qualifications to own a business, but that didn't mean he couldn't _become_ qualified. There were those specials on the news about people who never finished college that went on to be super successful entrepreneurs – he could be one of those, right? After all, he already had what he figured was the most important qualification for running a pastry shop: a rampant sweet tooth.

Only a month after the thought solidified in his mind (and after countless hours of meticulous research on how in the hell a serial part-timer with no business experience and no degree could best convert himself into a new business owner), he approached the couple with his formal offer.

A week later, the deal was sealed.

Two weeks later, the key to the store was in his hand.

Mishima remembered being so excited he felt like he was going to puke. As he stood basking in the store front – _his_ store front – for the first time, a powerfully disorienting tidal wave of emotions swallowed him. The shop was such a tiny hole-in-the-wall, but it was his now and that made all the dings, scratches, and imperfections that he used to wrinkle his nose at seem suddenly endearing. Eagerly, he called his best friend, excitedly babbling about all the plans he had, all the sweets he was going to eat, all the success he was going to find.

How he had finally, _finally_ , found something that he really wanted to pursue, something he really thought he could succeed at this time.

Then came that question. Innocuous, innocent, and absolutely damning. As soon as the words and implications behind them registered, it brought an entirely different wave of emotion crashing down over him.

The cold, icy shock of just how much he had screwed up.

“That's great Mishima. So you're going to be baking everything yourself? I didn't even know you could bake.”

“What are you talking about? I don't know the first thing about how to bake anything.”

“Uh...then who's doing the baking?”

…

"...Mishima?"

Shit.

"Don't tell me..."

Shit, shit, shit.

"Did you seriously forget to hire someone to bake the pastries?"

He had done all the research. He knew how to handle rent, suppliers, payroll, displays, storefront maintenance, and any number of business related matters. He had spent the entirety of his twenty years of life refining his sweet tooth. While he denied his love of sweets any time he was approached about it, he quickly learned how to differentiate between meringues that had been whipped to perfection and those that had been overworked. In private, he delighted that his palate continued to refine the more he indulged himself.

However, internet-granted business knowledge and a self-developed sweet tooth couldn't give him the most critical element of a pastry shop.

Actual pastries to sell.

“Why did you even have to ask that...I _thought_ I had everything, I was so excited,” he whined into the phone and turned his head once again to look at his woefully empty display case.

“Except you forgot about the pastries.”

“...Except I forgot about the pastries,” He admitted with what had to be his thousandth sigh of the day, “You don't have to rub it in. I know how stupid I am.”

“Sorry. And you're not stupid. Any hits on the hunt for a pasty person?”

“A pâtissier. And no, nothing yet. I had one guy call, but he was expecting an insane salary. No way would I have been able to pay him.”

“Man, what a shit bag.”

“Except that what he was asking for was pretty standard for the industry, so I have no idea how in the hell I'll be able to afford anyone even if I _can_ find them...”

“Don't worry, you'll find some sad sack who's as hard-up as you are before too long. There's that whole 'misery likes company' saying for a reason, right?”

“Gee, all I have to do is find someone as equally pathetic as me. Sounds easy. You sure know just what to say to make me feel better.”

“Makes you want to run right back into my arms, doesn't it.”

“Not on your life.”

Despite himself, Mishima felt the corners of his mouth lift up into a smile for the first time that day. He had enough in savings to cover the first couple of months of rent; surely he would be able to find some “sad sack” by then.

* * *

The scrape of the key in the lock and the gentle tinkling of the bell above the door announced Mishima's arrival. Two second later, his long, exasperated sigh announced his despondence. He wasn't quite sure why he kept coming to this pastry shop filled with no pastries. He had spent the last two weeks scrambling to achieve one of two goals, forging sleep, eating, and any other nuisances that might take away his time.

Option one: find a pâtissier who was actually willing to work for him for probably way less than they deserved to be paid.

Option two: figure out how to make professional-grade pastries and figure it out fast.

Option one wasn't going anywhere fast. Every potential lead he pursued shot him down the second he mentioned the expected salary. He had even had the pleasure of being laughed at twice before the person on the other end of the line promptly hung up on him. A part of him was beginning to develop an acute resentment of all pâtissier everywhere.

Option two wasn't looking any better. Much like his research on how to run a business, he had turned to the internet to act as his guide in all things pastries. At the very least, he felt like he was beginning to wrap his head around some of the terminology and theory behind it. The problem, however, made itself evident as soon as he turned on the burner to start making the first pastry.

With another sigh, he moved from the store's entry way and made his way back to the kitchen. Knowing what he would face as soon as he turned on the lights forced him to pause. He stood in the doorway, eyes tracing over the half-lit outlines of counter tops, fridges, and mixers.

"No matter how long I wait, it's not going to be any better," he muttered irritably as he finally resigned himself to his fate and clicked on the lights.

He was looking at a disaster area.

Although he had been expecting it, he couldn't stop the flush of abject failure that immediately shot through his body. He had attempted actually baking his first pastry the other day - a creme puff, something every website and tutorial video assured him was an excellent recipe for a beginner - and somehow, everything that could go wrong did go wrong.

Even with only baking the pastry, his results were under baked, over baked, burnt on the top while raw in the middle, collapsed, straight up burnt, and every other mistake under the sun. If he weren't so busy lamenting his failure, he would have been impressed there were so many ways to mess up a recipe with only five ingredients; he couldn't even begin to imagine all the fun possibilities that were bound to happen when he tried to make the eight-ingredient custard to fill the puffs.

Yesterday had been such a parade of disappointment that he didn't even have the energy to clean up. Instead, he hurried home, biting back frustrations and tears. Tomorrow. He had to magically figure it out tomorrow.

Well, it was tomorrow now and he wasn't feeling particularly magical.

Dejectedly, Mishima shuffled into the kitchen and began to sweep his bittersweet shame into the garbage. None of it was good enough for him to even attempt to eat. A wry, self-deprecating smile crossed his face as he wondered if even the rats would go for them. Probably not.

It took all of about twenty minutes to dispose of an entire day's worth of failure.

Bitterness roiling in his stomach, he began to cut and weigh the butter. He had no choice. There wasn't going to be any last-minute hero to swing in and save him from his own mediocrity.

As he dropped the butter into a sauce pot, his hands shook and the world began to blur. Viciously, he wiped at his eyes, but the blurring only grew worse.

Stupid.

It was so stupid.

 _He_ was so stupid.

This time it was going to be different. This time he was going to be the one in charge, the one with the power to make decisions and steer his own life. It wouldn't be like middle school, where his every day was at the mercy of a ring of bullies; it wouldn't be like high school, where bruises were his constant companion and pain was the only thing that bothered to stick around; it wouldn't be like the past two years, an unending string of days that blurred together in their dull similarity.

It was  _supposed_ to be...

Why did he even bother.

Everything was _supposed_ to be.

It never was.

Life had taught him that lesson more times than he cared to remember; he had come to accept it.

What good would come from someone like him even bothering to hope.

"You're going to burn the butter."

Mishima nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.  As a force of habit, he quickly turned his back and used his sleeve to get rid of as much snot and tears as he could manage. Showing any signs of his weakness would only make things worse.

As he continued to wipe at his face, realization dawned on Mishima that there was some stranger in the kitchen and he had just turned his back on them. Wasn't this how people in slasher movies died all the time? He whipped around once again, his body braced to run.

And he found himself looking at an unassuming young man standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

Previous suspicions forgotten, Mishima looked him up and down. He registered the messy mop of hair, the thick rimmed glasses, the casual clothes, and the clear grey eyes that seemed to be scrutinizing him in return. The sharp, seemingly knowing look in those eyes made Mishima squirm. Frantically, he began to file through his memories, trying to find why this young man might be standing here, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but he came up empty. If the two of them had met before, Mishima certainly didn't remember.

"Uhm," Mishima began as he finally found his voice, "Can I help you with something?"

"You're going to burn the butter."

"The butter...?" Mishima echoed back. Still in a daze, he looked down at the sauce pot and felt the color drain from his face. The butter he had been melting was beginning to brown and smoke.

"Crap!" He yelled as he pulled the pot from the burner and ran it to the sink, flicking on the water. He was rewarded for his efforts with a face full of steam, "God, how many times does this make?"

"Does this happen a lot?"

The stranger spoke again, causing Mishima to look up at him. His expression had effortlessly migrated to a playful smirk. Mishima found himself frowning in response.

"Can I help you with something?" He repeated, ignoring the digging tone and comment.

"Maybe. I wanted to ask about this."

As he spoke, the young man produced a red and white sign that boldly proclaimed "HELP WANTED: PLEASE INQUIRE INSIDE". In the corner, scrawled in Mishima's messy handwriting, was the additional plea of 'please, please, please!'. He hadn't expected anyone to actually show up; he placed it in the window as a formality more than anything.

"You...want to apply for the position?" Mishima asked wonderingly as he looked up at the young man's face again.

"I might want to," He said with a carefree shrug of his shoulders, "Depends on what the position is. The sign never bothered to share that information."

"Oh! Right!" Mishima felt his face flush in embarrassment. Yet another screw up, "Well, the position is that of a pâtissier. Are you...uhm...qualified?"

The stranger smirked again, "I might be. That's not really for a part-timer like yourself to decide though, is it? "

Mishima felt his cheeks flare again, but this time he wasn't sure if it was more from anger or embarrassment. Just who did this punk think he was?

"I'll have you know that I'm  _not_ a part-timer. In fact, I'm the owner, proprietor, and sole employee of this shop!"

The stranger's expression shifted to what looked to be genuine surprise as he once again evaluated Mishima. For his part, Mishima tried his best to put forth a owner, proprietor, and sole employee aura...whatever that felt like. He wasn't sure if he was successful or not because while the young man's face once again relaxed into a smile, it didn't quite reach a smirk. At least, Mishima didn't think it did.

"Well then, boss, can I schedule an interview?"

Mishima had expected to feel a flush of pride at the use of that title, but the way he enunciated it only made him frown once again.

"If you're really think you have the qualifications, then I don't see why not. How does tomorrow at ten o'clock sound?"

"Fine by me. I'll see you then. And maybe you should leave the poor butter alone for the day. I think you've drowned it effectively enough for now."

Belatedly, Mishima realized that he still had the water running. With a squeak of surprise, he turned the faucet off and looked up again only to find himself alone. A few seconds later, he heard the sound of the door opening and the bell cheerily announcing the boy's departure.

He hadn't dreamed that, right?

The stress and sleepless nights weren't causing him to hallucinate, right?

It felt shockingly real. None of his dreams were this lucid. But to have someone he had never seen before sweep in and offer to take the position - offer to save him - there was no way this was reality. He had spent the better part of his life waiting for some hero to rescue him. There was no way, absolutely no way, that a hero would just swoop in off the street now of all times. There had to be come catch.

After all, heroes don't smirk like that.

Dazedly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly typed out a brief message to his friend.

'i think i found a sad sack'


	2. Chapter 2

“And your name is?”

“Kurusu Akira.”

“Kurusu...Akira...okay! And Kurusu-san, how did you learn about the position?”

(An important note! Start the interview with some easy questions to make sure the interviewee is comfortable and you can get basic information to see if it matches their resume)

“A bright red sign in your window with some decorative begging added onto the corner for flair.”

“...Right. I guess that’s really the only way you could’ve figured it out since I didn’t call you. And...what is your educational background?”

“I finished high school but I don’t have any higher education.”

“Oh! That’s just like me!”

(An important note! Make them feel at ease by showing them you are friendly, open, and willing to share information about yourself as well)

“And yet you think you’ll be able to run a pastry shop entirely by yourself? Somehow, I’m not exactly filled with glowing confidence.”

“I...have the necessary information to manage it perfectly fine, but I appreciate your concern.”

(An important note! Don’t let the interviewee gain control of the interview. _YOU_ are the employer and you want to make sure you’re getting quality employees)

“So returning to the matter at hand, let us move to more pressing questions. Do you believe yourself to be an individual qualified to fill the position of pâtissier?”

As he spoke, Mishima adjusted the non-prescription lenses he had perched at the end of his nose. He had run out to buy them last night, the patronizing tone of “boss” still buzzing irritably in his skull hours later. Between the glasses, his clipboard which was currently occupied by Kurusu’s resume, and a frantic night of scouring the internet for how to conduct a professional interview, he felt more or less prepared.

Except that his interviewee, one Akira Kurusu, _still_ seemed to have the upper hand somehow. He had dressed up slightly for the interview, but his body language remained as cool and relaxed as when he had unexpectedly dropped by the other day. As Mishima waited for his response and studied him carefully (An important note! Body language and eye contact can tell you just as much about a person as their responses to your questions), Kurusu placed his hand under his chin in the most stereotypical “Thinker” pose Mishima had ever seen.

“Hm…” He finally said as his eyes slid from the kitchen ceiling to meet Mishima’s gaze instead, “Probably about as qualified as you are for your position.”

Despite himself, Mishima felt heat rush immediately to his cheeks. To his mortification, the corners of Kurusu’s smile quirked up even further as he caught on to this new development. Mishima had known Kurusu for less than twenty-four hours and he would swear on his life that ninety-five percent of the expressions he had seen out of him were smirks of one form or another. What, was that his default expression or something?

Mishima noisily cleared his throat and looked down at his clipboard, pretending to be looking something over on Kurusu’s resume. (An important note! If you’re ever not sure how to proceed, consult their resume). He waited until his blush died down before looking up again, his sight intentionally skimming over Kurusu’s still prominent smirk and focusing on his eyes instead.

(An important note! Eye contact is key)

“Kurusu-san,” Mishima began as he leaned forward in his chair in what he hoped was an estimation of an important professional, “You realize this is a job interview, correct? Please take it seriously.”

His eyes softened slightly, but the playful mirth was still painfully obvious.

“Sorry, boss. I’ll do better on the next question. Promise.”

Boss. Again that patronizing tone making his skull buzz with discomfort.

Well, at least this interview was going just as well as Mishima had expected for a random walk-in off the street. Those familiar pangs of failure roiled in his chest as he realized yet again that there was no way this little melodrama was going to have a nice, neat TV ending.

“So!” He continued with painfully forced cheeriness, “Your resume shows a lot of part-time work at a variety of places. What would you say was the most valuable thing you took away from these experiences?”

(An important note! Keep it concise but meaningful - you’ll have many interviewees to get through)

(Yeah, “many”)

“Probably how to deal with a variety of people. The customers you run into at a flower shop are different from those at a convenience store or beef bowl restaurant. So by working at all of them, I feel like I have a pretty good grasp of different kinds of customers and the best way to deal with them. The same could be said of co-workers.”

Mishima’s head snapped up in honest shock at how genuine Kurusu’s answer was and he was surprised to find that his smirk had faded entirely. All the knowledge Mishima has painstakingly gathered about conducting interviews seemed to immediately escape him and he stared open-mouthed for several seconds before giving a stunned nod. Maybe Kurusu was finally taking this seriously.

“I see. That does sound like a valuable skill to have. Thank you. Have you ever worked at a pastry shop before?”

“Nope.”

Okay...not the answer he had been hoping to hear.

“A bakery?”

“Nope.”

...He didn’t…

“...Any sort of position where you were required to bake professionally?”

“Not unless you count handling the stuff in the hotbox at a convenience store.”

Okay, he wasn’t taking this seriously at all.

Mishima felt his heart sink immediately to the floor. Who was he kidding. Of course Kurusu wasn’t taking the interview seriously - if he were in his position, he wouldn’t be taking it seriously either. What kind of dumbass opened a pastry shop but didn’t actually have someone to bake pastries to sell?

The Mishima kind of dumbass.

He couldn’t even find the energy to sigh as he slumped back into his chair, set down his clipboard, and took off his fake glasses. What did it matter. Kurusu already knew he was nothing but a sham. Mishima stared pointedly at an indistinguishable point on the counter top as he bit the inside of his cheek. He had cried in front of Kurusu once; he was going to use all the skills he had developed over the years to make sure it didn’t happen again.

(An important note! You’re the employer and must act like it at all times - don’t let too much emotion show)

“Look,” Mishima began, trying his best to hide the telltale tremor in his voice, “I don’t know if a friend dared you to do this or you just get some sort of sick kick out of watching idiots like me squirm or...whatever reason you had for walking in here. But I already know. I know how stupid I am. Just leave. This idea was a failure before it even started. I’ll close the shop and do...something else. Maybe if I get on my knees and beg I’ll be able to get back one of my part-time jobs. That’s probably the kind of place I belong anyways.”

Mishima finished his speech with a hollow laugh. His fingernails dug into his palms and his knuckles grew white as he balled his hands into fists in his lap. He could only hope that Kurusu had at least enough decency to let the joke drop and leave him to wallow in misery in peace.

The scrape of Kurusu’s chair against the floor as he stood up brought a bitter smile to Mishima’s lips. So he wasn’t all devilish smirks. Seemed like there was some kindness under that devil-may-care attitude. Too bad he was never going to see him again after today.

Mishima waited a twenty count, enough time for Kurusu to leave, before the wall immediately crumbled to the onslaught of negative emotions. His shoulders began to shake as his nails bit deeper into his palms. He tried his best to keep the crying silent - don’t feel, don’t think, save yourself at least one bruise - but he couldn’t stop a few broken sobs from escaping him. It was always like this. He could never save himself, no matter how hard he tried, and heroes only existed in children’s anime.

But then he head the telltale click of a burner being turned on followed quickly by the sound of a running faucet. Mishima’s blood turned to ice as he realized that he hadn’t heard the bell above the front door announcing Kurusu’s departure. Not even bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes, he swiveled around in his chair and felt his mouth drop open.

Kurusu stood next to the ingredients Mishima had been using the other day for his attempts at cream puffs. Without a word, he took the sauce pot into his hand and quickly filled it with water, the important rule of carefully measuring your ingredients while baking apparently not applying to him. As Mishima watched on in stunned silence, he sliced a stick of butter with surprising dexterity. In one motion he dropped the butter into the sauce pot and put the whole thing on the burner. It was only then that he looked over in Mishima’s direction.

Another smirk.

Yet this one felt...gentler somehow.

“...What are you doing?” Mishima’s asked eventually.

“Baking,” Kurusu responded with a shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to start baking after someone had just dismissed you from an interview.

“...But why?”

“Since I don’t have any professional experience with baking, I figured this was the quickest way to prove my qualifications. Like they say, the proof is in the pudding. Or maybe in this case in the profiterole.”

Mishima lapsed into stunned silence yet again as he watched Kurusu drop a few more ingredients into the pot - sugar and salt, maybe? - before he began stirring. Ten seconds ago, he had been prepared to completely throw in the towel; he had accepted that there was no way to dig himself out of this hole he had created. However, as he watched Kurusu continue to bake, his posture as relaxed and sure of himself as always, he felt an odd spark in his chest.

Curiosity and hope.

Eagerly, he snatched up his clipboard and pen. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but as he drew closer his strides had a sudden spring to them that wasn’t there before.

“So you put all the ingredients in together?” He asked in the most controlled tone he could manage as he peered into the pot Kurusu was stirring, “I thought you were supposed to put the salt and sugar in after the butter was already melted. Er, it _was_ salt and sugar you were putting in there, right?”

“Yeah. If you add them in later, it can mess with the texture. You have to let them all boil together.”

“Huh, I didn’t know that,” as he spoke, Mishima jotted notes in the margins of Kurusu’s resume, his hands moving in large, frenetic strokes, as if the information would slip away forever if he didn’t immediately write it down, “But it’s okay to add the flour in later?”

“You have to add the flour in later, after the other ingredients come to a boil. We’re going to use it to thicken the mixture so we can actually make it into pastries.”

“I see...and what was that thing you said earlier? Pro...something.”

“Profiterole. Or maybe you know it better as a cream puff?”

“That was what I was trying to bake!” Mishima’s voice rose in unabashed excitement as he looked at Kurusu, “I heard that it’s a really easy recipe for beginners so I thought I...might be able to handle it…”

If Kurusu heard the catch in Mishima’s voice at the end of that sentence, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he lit another burner and pulled out another sauce pot.

“That so?” He said with a light lilt to his voice, “I thought a profiterole might have been enough to impress you, but I guess I’ll have to step up my game a little bit. Make sure you take notes, boss.”

Mishima expected that familiar trill of displeasure from Kurusu's use of boss, but much like his earlier smirk, this felt gentler somehow.

The next half hour was spent with Kurusu standing at the stove top with Mishima at his side, asking him question after question, excitedly jotting down answers. Mishima couldn’t help but be impressed - every single pitfall he had fallen into when he was trying to bake was masterfully and effortlessly avoided. It was obvious that Kurusu had done this before.

As Kurusu put them into the oven to bake, Mishima realized that he had filled the entirety of the margins of Kurusu’s resume with notes. He didn’t even realize he had still been writing.

“Uhm, is there other steps after this?” He asked as Kurusu set the timer on the oven.

“Unless you’re interested in having cream puffs with nothing in them, then yes.”

“Okay! Then wait here a second. I have to go get more paper.”

“To take notes on how I’m doing in my interview?” Kurusu responded with another one of his quickly-becoming-trademark smirks.

Right. This wasn’t a baking class. It was supposed to be an interview. He had got so caught up in watching Kurusu work that he had nearly forgotten.

“O-Of course. I’ve just been asking you all these questions to...make sure you know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m glad you’re so diligent, boss. For a second there, I thought you might have been taking notes on how to bake instead.”

Mishima had always been a terrible liar so he hadn’t expected to actually get away with such a flimsy lie. However, that didn’t stop him from frowning as a light flush rushed to his cheeks.

“...Of course not. I’m conducting this interview in the most professional manner possible.” To prove his point, he fiddled gently with the glasses balanced on his nose. Except that he had forgot to actually put the glasses back on, so instead he just felt himself flush in embarrassment once again.

“Oh yes, very professional. So in your very professional opinion, what’s the best flavor of profiterole?”

“You could just call it a cream puff, y’know,” Mishima responded as his frown deepened and he tried his best to regain some control of this situation.

“I could, but the goal is to impress you, boss, so I figure I should be as professional and serious about this as possible.”

Mishima couldn’t help but roll his eyes. So far, the only way Mishima would include ‘professional’ and ‘serious’ in a sentence with Kurusu’s name was if he was talking about how much he was neither of those things.

But then again, maybe the same could be said of him.

“Any of them are good really,” Mishima answered with a shrug, “I’ll leave it to your very professional and serious judgement which would be best.”

Mishima was rewarded for his trouble with another smirk as he exited the kitchen to find some paper. However, instead of heading to the back rooms where he would surely find something, as soon as he was out of earshot he excitedly fished his phone from his pocket and punched in his friend’s number. He bounced back and forth on his heels as he listened to the other line ring. Finally, on the last ring, he heard the other end pick up.

“I just want you to know that I heard the first ring but I decided to wait till the last one to pick up since you were an asshole and did the same thing to me yesterday.”

Well, at least some things never changed.

“Look, that’s not important any more. Remember the sad sack I mentioned yesterday?”

“The one that walked in and saw you crying?”

“Of course that’s the part you remember.”

“Oh no, I remember a lot more than that - he told you you were burning the butter, he was willing to interview the next day, he called you boss, he seemed like a bit of a jerk - I just brought up the important part.”

“Thanks. But I think this might actually work! I’ve been watching him bake and he’s  _amazing_! Sometimes he moves so fast I can’t even keep up!”

“You know this is suspicious, right? Amazing pastry people don’t just walk in off the street to save poor idiots that buy pastry stores and don’t think the whole thing through. He has to have some other motive.”

“I know, but...what other choice do I have? Go back to what I was doing before?”

The silence on the other end of the line felt unexpectedly heavy. Mishima swallowed noisily as his bubble of excitement instantly popped. He was fairly certain he already knew where this was going. They had had this conversation more than once.

“You could apply for colleges again.”

Mishima’s heart stuttered and his mouth ran dry. Like clockwork. His fingers began to play with the already frayed hem of his shirt. A bad habit he had been trying and failing to break for years now.

“You know better than anyone that I can’t.”

“...I know. Shit, I know, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about it.”

“Thanks. I really think this might be my one big chance. This is something I can do; this is something he can’t touch. With Kurusu’s help, I _know_ I can do this.”

“Just...promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course. I don’t want you running back on the first train just because I accidentally miss a phone call or two.”

“Because I would.”

“Yes, you would.”

With a slight smile, Mishima bid his friend goodbye before returning to his hunt for paper. He managed to find a few old fliers stacked in one of the back rooms. Not bothering to count or think of the actual number he might need, he grabbed a handful and rushed back to the kitchen.

He found Kurusu with another new pot on the stove to replace the one that had contained the pastry dough. The second pot had to be the filling, but no matter how he wracked his brain, he wasn’t sure what the third pot was for. Kurusu was once again easily outpacing him.

“So what’s in the third pot?” Mishima asked as he approached, clipboard, pen, and blank sheet of paper at the ready.

“That’s for stepping up my game,” Kurusu said as he briefly looked up at him before returning to his work.

“Stepping up your game? What’s that mean?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Mishima frowned again, but he figured he would find out what he was planning soon enough. For now, it was time to gather as much baking knowledge as he possibly could. They made it about halfway through preparing the filling when the timer for the puffs when off. Before Mishima could even volunteer to take them out of the oven, Kurusu had already swooped in and placed them on the counter, leaving Mishima in utter shock.

They looked like something out of a cooking magazine. They were golden brown, perfectly uniform, and they smelled positively heavenly. They were nothing like the tray after tray of failures Mishima had produced the other day. As he stared at them, he had the distinct feeling that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

And it was all thanks to Kurusu.

“Keep you eyes in your head,” he heard Kurusu comment from beside him, his voice clearly betraying his smirk even though Mishima couldn't see it, “We haven’t even gotten to the actually impressive part.”

Mishima burned with curiosity, but he simply nodded as he turned his attention away for the fluffy bites of heaven and back to the filling. Apparently, Kurusu’s professional and serious opinion had decided to go with a traditional vanilla filling. To be perfectly honest, Mishima couldn’t help but be mildly disappointed that it wasn’t something flashier. Still, he figured as he snuck a taste of the now cooling cream, that didn’t change the fact that it was absolutely delicious.

“Can I borrow one of your sheets of paper?”

Guiltily, Mishima’s hand shot back from the cream as he turned to look at Kurusu, but the other boy was preoccupied with rummaging under the counter for something. Mishima looked down at his clipboard and silently handed him one of the unused papers, which he took without looking up. A few second later he emerged with some masking tape and a roll of parchment paper. Mishima’s confusion only compounded.

“Are you...taking a break for arts and crafts?”

“Something like that.”

Kurusu rolled the cardboard into a cone and lined the inside with parchment paper. Once he had taped everything into place, he turned to Mishima and gave another one of those smirks.

“Now the fun starts.”

Still thoroughly confused, Mishima watched as Kurusu began to fill the pastries, dip them into mystery pot number three, and load them into the cone. As he watched him add puff after puff, everything suddenly clicked into place and Mishima excitedly leaned in to watch as Kurusu worked.

“Oh! I read about this! You’re making a cone tower thing and then you’re going to cover it in sugar threads! It’s made for celebrations and stuff!”

“I think the term you’re looking for is a ‘croquembouche’, but I guess 'cone tower thing' is just as eloquent.”

“Yeah! A cro...whatever you said! It's French, right?”

"Yup. Don't ask me how to spell it though. You'll just have to take your best guess in your notes."

Mishima continued to watch on in barely restrained excitement as Kurusu finished assembling the tower and quickly moved to work on the sugar threads, spinning them in long, even strokes. It was almost hypnotizing watching him move in such a practiced way, his expression more serious than Mishima had ever seen him before.

It was kind of nice.

Then Kurusu’s eye caught his and that smirk came to ruin it all over again. Mishima quickly looked away and decided that he wasn’t going to look back until Kurusu was done constructing the pastry. He didn’t want to give him that kind of satisfaction. The wait wasn’t a long one, but Mishima caught himself trying to sneak a peak more than once.

“And done. So what do you think?”

Mishima turned around, a smart retort playing on his lips, but it died the instant his eyes settled on the croquembouche. Akira’s perfect pastries were now assembled in a towering cone, the sugar that held them together spilling over the side, giving it a glossy, inviting sheen. The entire thing was enveloped in hundreds of sugar threads that made it look like the tower was wrapped in silk. Most surprising of all, however, was that one side was covered with a cascade of delicately shaped marzipan flowers.

“But where...where did the flowers come from?” Mishima asked as he approached cautiously, as if the whole thing were a mirage that would disappear the second he got too close.

“I made them when you were running off to get paper. So? Impressed?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more impressed in my life…” Mishima answered honestly, too stunned to remember all the coaching he had given himself about proper interviewing protocol and how you did _not_ let the intervewee see how impressed you were, “It’s amazing Kurusu-san...”

“Does that mean I get the job?”

“Yes! When can you start!?”

The strength and speed with which Mishima answered seemed to catch both Kurusu and Mishima himself off guard. Hastily, Mishima cleared his throat as he took two steps back, realizing suddenly that he had been invading Kurusu’s personal space in his excitement.

“I mean...we’ll take your application into consideration and be in touch with you soon. The number on your resume would be the best way to reach you, correct?”

“Yup. I’ll be waiting by my phone for your call, boss.”

And with that, Kurusu gave a lackadaisical wave as he left the kitchen. This time, Mishima made sure to listen for the sound of the bell above the door. As soon as he heard it, he immediately rushed back over to the croquembouche and paced around it in excited circles. He had seen far more extravagant dessert displays before, but there was something about being there for the process - watching all the pieces fall into place - that made this simple cone of cream puffs one of the most impressive things he had ever seen.

He had to hire Kurusu.

He was the only one who could help him.

He was the only one who could save him.

However, as he plucked the puff from the tip of the cone and popped it into his mouth (so light! so fluff! so good!), he couldn’t quite dismiss the nagging tone of his friend’s voice from the back of his mind.

What had _really_ caused Kurusu to walk into his shop?

He had told himself that there weren't going to be heroes in his life, that heroes don't smirk like that...but was it really so stupid to hope that they might?


End file.
